


Kidlock

by Lassie



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassie/pseuds/Lassie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lonely boy with curly black hair who always sits on the swings at recess. Nobody swings to either side of him--just young Sherlock Holmes, left to close his eyes and pretend he's flying.</p>
<p>And John wonders why. What could be so strange or unfriendly about this boy that he has nobody to talk to? Determined to end Sherlock's solitude, John Watson gives Sherlock the one thing he cannot gain by sheer intellect alone--a friend.</p>
<p>But not all is well at the small public school in England. While John and Sherlock are well on their way to becoming best friends, a new student arrives whose own jealous loneliness could very well end that friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Open Your Eyes, We'll Fly Together

There he was again, the black-haired boy.

John had seen him around the school, but he didn't know much about him. He knew that they were both seven—he had his class across the hall from the strange boy, but he had never spoken a word.

He just sat alone on his swing during recess, swinging by himself while the other swings on the swing set remained empty. John had barely been able to find out the other boy's name from the other kids.

But one day, John's curiosity finally got the better of him. His best friend was out sick and his other friends were playing his least favourite game, so he decide to tell them he'd see them later.

He walked over the blacktop towards the lonely boy, and as he was noticed, he saw the black-haired boy stop swinging, dragging his feet on the ground until his swing didn't swing anymore. The boy looked at him, surprised, with big blue eyes.

"Hi," John said, sitting down on the empty swing next to the boy. "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? I asked my friends and they asked their friends in Mrs. Willow's class and they said your name was Sherlock."

The boy blinked in surprise, as though he hadn't expected another kid to take enough interest in him to find out his name. He looked down at the wood chips. "And you're John Watson."

John laughed. "How did you know my name? I never see you talking to anyone."

Sherlock looked farther away until all John could see was the back of his curly-haired head. "I listen. One of the recess monitors was yelling at you for jumping off of the slide from up too high."

"Right! I remember that time—that was real fun!"

Finally, Sherlock turned back to face John. "You don't think it's weird?"

"What's weird?" John asked, blinking.

"That I knew your name from one random occurrence that happened across the playground."

John frowned. "But I knew your name from asking my friends and their friends."

"But that's different!" Finally, Sherlock showed some emotion in his words, blue eyes worried. "You have friends—I don't! I have my one seat in the lunch room that I always sit at and nobody else sits around me and I have my swing that I swing on alone and pretend I'm flying because everybody thinks that what I can do is weird and that I'm weird." Sherlock's hands, circled around the plastic coating of the swing chains, shook slightly.

"So you've never had a friend?" John was shocked. He had lots of friends and nobody had ever called him weird.

"I only have a brother. And he doesn't really count since he's always so aloof 'cause he's older." Sherlock sniffed, shaking his head and sending his curls bouncing.

John felt really bad for the dark-haired boy. He didn't seem weird, but here he was sitting alone on a swing. No, that wasn't right. John was sitting next to him. "I'll be your friend."

"Huh?" The other boy stared at him, pale eyes wide.

"I'll be your friend, Sherlock. Other people are silly if they don't want to play with you."

"Really?"

John nodded and a conspiratorial grin suddenly came onto his face. "Of course! And you know what would be cool?"

"What?" Sherlock was excited. He finally had someone to call a friend! And he didn't even think he was weird!

"Let's go jump off the slide—we can do it when the monitors aren't looking. I'll show you how!"

Sherlock paled. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Come on, it'll be okay!"

And they went off towards the big red slide. John landed kind of badly and Sherlock landed on top of John but they had fun and that was all that mattered. And the monitors didn't even see, which was certainly a good thing. The last thing John needed was to get his new friend in trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a long time coming!

John's friends were really confused when they saw him and Sherlock jumping off the slide. That had been something John had done to show off to them when they were playing on the side. The first time he'd done it, he'd sprained his ankle really badly and the doctors had had to put a cast on it and he'd had to limp for forever.

But what was he doing jumping with Sherlock? They stopped playing their game and the ball kind of bounced out of the circle before someone thought to run after it a few seconds later. Of course they gigged when Sherlock landed on John, but they were still really puzzled as to why John had taken a sudden interest in the weird lonely kid.

After they got up and brushed the wood chips from their clothing, they laughed, and Sherlock wondered when he had last laughed with someone out of his family. An adult, probably. His parents were always holding these fancy gathering things, and the guests always either laughed at Sherlock's observations or looked at him like he was weird. 

But John. John was like a character from one of the books he read—the pirate ones, not the psychological disorder ones—happy and carefree and adventurous, and Sherlock couldn't help but get caught up in that.

"Come on," John said once he'd picked all of the bits of wood chips off. "Let's go play with my friends. I think they have a ball or something."

He watched John race off for a second before reluctantly taking off after him. He wasn't sure he wanted to meet John's friends yet. He'd barely just made a friend and he wasn't sure he was ready for more. But he followed John because John was his friend and he wanted him to stay that way.

When they reached the circle of boys, Sherlock recognised one of them from his class. Anderson. He wasn't quite sure what Anderson's first name was, despite his observational skills. It was mainly because they avoided one another like the plague because they—at least in Anderson's mind—were rivals.

Sherlock looked down immediately after stopping and that was when the questions started. "Who's that?" "Why are you with him?" Along with a whispered, "John, you know who that is?"

"His name is Sherlock and he's my new friend," John said stubbornly, trying to dispel the unkindness that was circulating through the circle like dye in water.

"Friend?" Sneered Anderson. "He has no friends."

"Yes he does," John persisted.

"No he doesn't. He's weird and we don't talk to him."

"Yeah," echoed a few of the other kids. Sherlock wanted to melt into an invisible puddle.

"You really think he's weird?" John asked, and Sherlock worried that he may have been swayed by the kids in the circle.

"Uh-huh. He doesn't talk to anybody and he's always dropped off in that black car every morning and his brother is supposed to be really really smart but he's just weird," Anderson said, even bringing in Mycroft to aid in his argument.

John looked back at Sherlock, who was keeping his distance from the circle. "But he's not weird. He's smart—smarter than anyone I've ever met, and he's nice. He only doesn't talk to you guys 'cause you're always so mean to him."

Sherlock sighed. "It's true." His voice was smaller than he'd expected it to come out. He wanted to leave, wanted to run back to his swing, but he didn't want to give up the one chance at friendship he had gotten. "You guys are never very nice—I don't point out all of the mistakes you make in class. I barely even speak in class except to give an answer and you're still mean."

He could see John's pose become a little tenser when Sherlock brought up the meanness. Oh, but Sherlock didn't want John to fall out with his friends defending him. "But if you start being nice to me," Sherlock said, "I'll try not to act too weird, I guess." He didn't really know how he acted weird, but if it helped, he decided he'd might as well try.

Anderson huffed, and a few of John's friends looked wary, but John took advantage of Sherlock's help. "Yeah, he'll be good. And you'll only see him at lunch and recess, so you don't have to like him. But I like him so he'll be with us."

Sherlock found himself smiling. So John's sudden friendship with him wasn't just some passing whim. He'd gone to the effort to find out his name, and he actually talked to Sherlock when nobody else did. Maybe John would be like one of the pirate heroes in the books and whisk Sherlock away from all of the bad stuff so they could have adventures on the high seas. But the high seas were far away—so the playground could suffice until Sherlock found a good boat.


	3. Chapter 3

Once John was back at home, he waved hi to his parents and dashed into his room. His bulldog puppy waddled in soon after him. "Hello, Hamish!" John said, bouncing up and down on his bed before lifting the eager puppy up next to him. His parents told him not to let Hamish on the bed, but John deemed this a special occasion.

"I made a new friend today, Hamish!" The puppy wiggled before burying his head into John's hand and licking him.

"I know, isn't it exciting?" He lay down on his back and Hamish shuffled through the cushions until he was at John's shoulder, peering down at his master with brown puppy eyes. "His name is Sherlock Holmes and he's very lonely, but he's my friend now so he won't be lonely no more. And we're going to have lots of adventures and it will be brilliant!"

Hamish gave a short bark, wagging his little stub of a tail.

***

Sherlock quietly got into the car, sliding into the seat next Mycroft, who was already buckled in. "Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said, a little bit of excitement seeping into his words.

"Sherlock," said his brother, always serious.

There were a few minutes of silence as the driver pulled out of the school parking lot and got onto the road.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, looking at his brother almost nervously now that he was finally beginning conversation.

The older boy glanced up at Sherlock before returning his focus to the paper he was working on. He wrote something. "Yes, Sherlock? I can do my homework and talk."

"How do you make a friend?"

This time Mycroft diverted his attention entirely from his work. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "today another boy came up to me when I was sitting on the swings and he was really nice and I think we're friends now. Is that how the process normally works?"

Mycroft snorted. "The process?"

"Yes...I guess? What do you call it?"

"It's not too hard to make a friend, Sherlock. You have a conversation, unspokenly, but mutually decide you have enough in common, and then you're nice to one another for a while afterwards, either for forever or for until you drift apart. What you did today, Sherlock, was make a friend."

"It's my first friend." Sherlock smiled a little to himself.

"Then I hope he's a good one. Now let me finish these math problems."

"His name is John and we jumped off the slide together and he showed me his friends but—"

"Sherlock, I'm doing my homework," Mycroft said, glaring at his brother.

"But I made a friend!"

"You can tell me about him later."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, sinking back into the seat. "But this is exciting. I've never had a friend before and you have lots and I listen when you tell me about them and when I finally want to tell you about my friend, you have something to do."

"Don't whine, Sherlock!" Mycroft reprimanded but his face softened. "Fine, I can finish my homework at home." He set aside his pencil and paper. "What's your friend's name?"

"John Watson," Sherlock said, excited his brother was finally paying attention to him. "He's the same age as me but we're in different classes so he had to come over to me during recess when I was sitting alone on the swings. And we're going to be pirates sometime and it's going to be brilliant."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat in class, half-listening to the drone of the teacher's voice. He'd already learned all of the material that was to be taught this year, and the teacher was going so very slow with it all so that the rest of the class would understand.

A little while later, the teacher said something about a partner craft and as soon as the words left her mouth, the class shifted like a single organism, each student finding his or her usual partner and sitting down. Sherlock expected he'd work alone, as usual, when to his surprise, Anderson was suddenly in the seat next to him.

"Hi," said Sherlock, a little wary. He wasn't quite sure what to say to his friend's friend who may or may not yet be his friend, too.

"Mind if I work with you? Billy's out today and Dan always works with Laurence." Anderson took the sheet of directions the teacher offered and Sherlock did the same when she got to him.

"Sure, I guess...aren't I supposed to be too weird or something, though?" The teacher said to get supplies a second after Sherlock finished speaking and the two boys went over to the table to get safety scissors and construction paper.

"I don't know. You're always sitting there quiet while everybody else talks and nobody ever goes over to you so we can't know for sure." They were back at their seats now, and Anderson straightened his construction paper.

Understanding dawned on Sherlock. "Ah, so you've been sent to see how weird I really am."

Anderson looked sort of uncomfortable, and he took a second to cut out a shape with his safety scissors.

"Hey," said Sherlock, and Anderson glanced up at him. "I'm not really used to people yet, but I guess it's better to work with a spy for my new friends than to make another London landmark out of construction paper by myself." He cut out Big Ben's clock face—they were reviewing telling time so it was a convenient craft.

"Okay," said Anderson quietly as he put down the tower portion for Sherlock to glue the face on.

After a few minutes, Anderson was drawing the numbers on Big Ben with scribbly handwriting while Sherlock readied the paper fastener to put on the hands. Anderson noticed how quickly Sherlock was ready while Anderson was still carefully drawing his "6". "How do you use the paper fasteners so well? I always end up ripping stuff."

And Sherlock spent the rest of their time showing Anderson the best way to push a paper fastener through construction paper. "See?" He said finally. "You're not so incompetent at this stuff as you'd thought."

Anderson wasn't entirely sure what "incompetent" meant, but Sherlock's tone told him he'd done something good. "Thanks, Sherlock. Maybe you're not so weird."

Sherlock beamed. Two friends in two days! It was really nice, having friends.


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock?" John asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. They were at lunch, seated at long tables. For once, Sherlock had people to either side of him he might actually open his mouth to say something to either than "stop throwing food at me or I'll get my lawyer". It was a doubly good thing he didn't sit there anymore because he didn't actually have a lawyer.

"Mmhmm?" Sherlock said through a spoonful of soup.

"Want to come over after school tomorrow? We can make paper airplanes and throw them at things."

Sherlock nearly dropped his spoon. He swallowed his soup too quickly and it burned as it went down his throat. Through a cough, he managed, "Really?"

"Sure! I have a dog and his name is Hamish and we can play with him too."

A dog, too! Sherlock nodded, the burn in his throat easing. "I definitely want to come! I'll ask my parents tonight!"

***

Sherlock was so excited! He wriggled in his seat the entire car ride back home—much to Mycroft's annoyance.

"What is if?" Mycroft finally demanded, cross that he hadn't finished his homework yet.

But the car had finished going down the long driveway and as soon as the driver put it into park, Sherlock unbuckled and dashed the short distance to the front door. "Sherlock!" Mycroft called after him, confused.

The maid opened the door for Sherlock. "Are Mum and Dad home?" he immediately asked her.

"Yes, they're upstai—" Sherlock dashed past her and up the winding staircase.

"MUM! DAD!" he yelled, feet pounding on the wooden steps.

When he reached his mum's study, she looked cross. "Sherlock Holmes, what is that absolute racket?"

He dragged his foot across the carpet. "I'm sorry Mum, I'm just excited."

She looked at her son, standing in the doorway, disheveled head of curls looking down at the floor. "What about, Sherly?"

"A friend invited me over to his house tomorrow to play and I told him to ask you if I could and I really want to and—"

"Sherly, what did I tell you about run-on sentences? I don't care if that's the way other children speak, I will not have you sounding like a five-year-old."

He glanced up at her, then back down at the ground, mouth pressed in a small line. "Sorry, Mum. I do still really want to go to my friend's house tomorrow." 

She was silent for a second, as if trying to figure out the right way to phrase something. "...which friend is this?" Mum asked. It was much better than the question Sherlock had anticipated.

"His name is John Watson," said Sherlock.

"How long have you two been friends?" was her next tactful question.

Sherlock fidgeted. "It's only been two days...but..." he squeezed his eyes shut. "I haven't had a friend before and he's been really nice to me thus far."

He looked up again for longer this time and saw her calculating, staring at a space on the wall a few feet from the doorway. "I don't know his parents..."

"You could look them up?" Sherlock suggested. "I didn't really get any details today—even though I should have—about going over there tomorrow, so if you called you could find those out, too..." He inwardly cursed himself that he hadn't asked for details—that was the sort of thing his parents were always bugging Mycroft for when he went to a friend's house.

His mum sighed. "I guess I could call them—there should be some local Watsons in the phone book—but Sherlock, you need to be more conscious about details. Someday you're really going to need more information and you need to be actively collecting it." She closed out of a webpage, pushing her chair back as she got up. "Now I'm going to talk to your father before I give Mr. and Mrs. Watson a call. I'm pretty sure he'll allow you to go, but don't pester him about it too much during dinner, okay?"

Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. "Oh thanks, Mum! I'll definitely be better next time!" He dashed down the hallway to his room, nearly bumping into a still-confused Mycroft en route to his own room.

"Sherlock?" he asked, frowning.

Sherlock skidded to a stop on the carpet strip running down the hallway. "I'm going to a friend's house tomorrow! It's going to be great fun!"

It seemed as though nothing in the world could curb young Sherlock's enthusiasm. And nothing would—if only for a short time...


	6. Chapter 6

John worried on the bus ride home. It was the day Sherlock—who sat right next to him fidgeting slightly for a different reason—was supposed to come over. Sherlock always got picked up with his brother in that black car with the driver that wasn't his Mum or Dad so he had to have some measure of money...

And John? John's family was relatively normal. They had a nice house, enough room for their family and a nice, little fenced-in yard for John to chase Hamish around in. He knew he probably shouldn't worry, but nevertheless, he wondered if his new friend, whom he'd never seen off of school property before, would...would turn up his nose or something. Even if Sherlock didn't say something to that effect, John was worried what a silence might mean.

Sherlock had the window seat, and kept looking outside it, at the rows of little houses with their little lawns and little children. He wondered what that kind of life would be like. What if he had had parents who didn't start correcting his grammar as soon as he could form sentences? What if he didn't have his large house with the maid and the staircase with the long, curving wooden banister?

This taste of normalcy was a flavour Sherlock had never tried before, and he was scared he'd say the wrong thing. 

When the bus stopped for the third time, John announced that this was where they got off. He and Sherlock had decided to be rebels and hasn't buckled up, so all they had to do before they entered the aisle was scoop up their book bags.

They descended the steps of the bus and jumped off the last one, landing on the street. John and Sherlock hopped up onto the sidewalk and John led the way home as the bus pulled away from the curb.

Less than a minute later, they were at John's home. It was adorably small, green shingle siding with white-trimmed windows and a dark roof. Sherlock broke out into a big grin at the sight of it and all of John's worry flew from his mind. "This is where you live?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep!" John said, starting down the path to the front door.

"It's brilliant," came Sherlock's voice from behind him. John couldn't tell, but there was a slight wistful tone to his words.

They reached the front door and John banged on it a couple of times with the side of his fist, calling, "Mum! I'm home—and so's Sherlock!"

After a second, the door opened and a very cheerful-looking woman appeared in the doorway. "Hello, Sherlock, I'm Mrs. Watson. Come on in—John's been talking about you a lot."

John walked in as if it was something habitual. As if his mother opened the door for him every day with a smile on her face, rather than a maid who greeted only with a, "Hello, young Master Holmes."

As Sherlock passed Mrs. Watson, he was smiling. However, as soon as he stepped inside of the hall, he was nearly knocked off his feet by a puppy that dashed as though it had just been shot out of a cannon. "Ah!" Sherlock squeaked, regaining his balance.

John was looking at him in concern, but Sherlock could only laugh. "He's fantastic! I've never had a pet." As he stooped down to the bouncing bulldog puppy's level, he asked, "What's his name?"

"Hamish." John couldn't help but grin at the pure excitement on his friend's face. "He can be really annoying sometimes, but he's always happy."

"Hello, Hamish!" Sherlock said as he scratched the short fur behind the puppy's ears. Hamish barked, and John came over to pet the dog, too.

Mrs. Watson closed the door in case Hamish got any ideas and looked down at the boys. "You two have fun—I'll go make some sandwiches for snack."

When she left and Hamish was lounging on his side, revelling in the attention, Sherlock said, "Your mum's really nice."

"Yeah, she makes the best sandwiches."

"Looking forward to that, then!" He suddenly looked down, black curls bouncing. "My Mum just corrects my grammar and gives me reading assignments."

John glanced at his friend, concerned. He stood up and Hamish looked at him, confusion in his doggy eyes. "Come'n, let's make some planes! I've got tons of paper in my room."

Sherlock nodded, standing up and following John down the hallway. Hamish trotted a little ways behind them, hoping for a couple more pats. 

***

A little while later, they had made their paper aeroplanes and were currently trying to fly their mini sandwiches across John's room. "Mum would never let me do this!" Sherlock said, breathlessly excited as he attached his sandwich to the best of his abilities to the aeroplane.

John laughed and looked conspiratorially over to him. "Neither would mine!"

Sherlock's grin lit up his face. "So we launch them from here and try to land them on your bed?"

"Yep—just try not to get any jam on the covers or my Mum'll have my head." His sandwich secure, John raised his aeroplane so that it was about level with his ear. "You ready?" Sherlock mirrored him. "All right—on three! One...two...THREE!"

They launched their aeroplanes. Sherlock's angled down immediately and came to rest about a foot in front of him. John's throw had been a little luckier. As the plane flew, plane and sandwich disconnected. The plane arced perfectly through the air, landing on the bed, and the sandwich hung for a second in the air before Hamish leapt through the air, seized the sandwich in his puppy jaws and streaked out of the room.

"HAMISH, NO!" John shrieked, dashing out of the room after his puppy.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was so paralysed with laughter that it was a few seconds before he was able to follow his friend in pursuit of the sandwich-stealing dog.

He ran through the unfamiliar hall, listening for the sounds of John's feet and following him that way. Sherlock thought back to the books he'd read, the detective stories where the hero pursued the criminal through the city streets and decided that—forget pirates (for the moment)—this was their first case.

Eventually, Mrs. Watson appeared around a corner to see what all the racket was and John and Sherlock had to skid to a stop to avoid crashing into her. "What's going on, boys?" she asked, a suspicious look in her eyes.

John focused on the floor. "Hamish stole my sandwich."

"And how on earth did he manage to get it?" Her hands were on her hips.

"Somehow..." John said.

Mrs. Watson sighed, deciding against an extended interrogation. "Fine. How he got it, he got it. But you're cleaning up whatever mess he makes. Now go play somewhere else—poor Sherlock looks like he's going to bolt."

It was true. Sherlock felt sort of bad, as he had inadvertently participated in the act that had gotten John in trouble. He gave Mrs. Watson a small smile and followed John back to his room so that they could dispose of the rest of the evidence of their ill-conceived activity. 

So on their first case, the culprit got away with John's sandwich. Sherlock decided that, in the future, if they were to have any more detective adventures, they would end in a greater measure of success.

But until then, Sherlock was going to suggest playing pirates. He had the eyepatch in his backpack and everything.

And, by the time Sherlock's driver arrived to pick him up from the Watsons', John and Sherlock were laughing and "arr"-ing like proper pirates and—it made Sherlock happy to think about it—like proper friends.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes took their two boys to a science museum—they knew very well that Sherlock and Mycroft could afford to miss a day with the dull and simple curriculums—and because of this, Sherlock missed a day that would play a big role in his future.

Anderson noticed the empty desk in the back of the classroom, regarding it with curiosity. He knew Sherlock could be absent rather often and that the other boy wasn't really sick that often, but it appeared that he would have to go to John during lunch to find out what happened at John's house. He couldn't help being a little nosy.

Somebody walked in a few minutes after the bell had rung. Mra. Willow paused mid-sentence, although she didn't look too surprised. "Ah!" she said. "This must be our new student—class, say hello to James Moriarty."

"Jim," the kid muttered, a petulant look on his round face. Slightly disorderly black hair hung just past his ears.

The teacher kept her smile in place. "Of course, sorry Jim." She paused, then: "Would you like to tell us a little about yourself?"

"Well, it appears that I've been kicked out of every private school in the area and my parents have told me that they are at their wit's end—whatever that means. So I'm here until they'll find somewhere that'll let me in." His voice was light, and he spoke almost as well as Sherlock. However, where Sherlock was odd in demeanour, he was fairly normal in other respects. Jim's everything was weird, and, to the rest of the class, just a little frightening. Anderson saw them with questioning looks on their faces: What had he done to get kicked out of so many places?

The smile on Mrs. Willow's face was strained, obviously fake by the time Jim had gotten done talking. "Does anybody want to partner up with Jim for a bit until he becomes familiar with the school?"

Nobody raised their hand.

A few awkward seconds passed before Anderson's curiosity finally got the best of him. He raised a shaky hand and the teacher looked relieved. "Thank you, Anderson. Since there are no other open seats, Jim can sit in the empty chair in the back next to where Sherlock normally sits. Anderson, would you mind sitting in Sherlock's seat for the day?"

"No problem," Anderson said, picking up his safety scissors and pencil. They were to do another construction paper craft today that his father would no doubt hang on the wall with the others.

After a little bit, Mrs. Willow left them to their craft. This time, they had made a departure from London landmarks and were to construct Stonehenge. Anderson questioned her teaching methods. "Stonehenge? Are you serious?" Jim asked, navigating a piece of tray construction paper with his safety scissors.

"Last time it was Big Ben," Anderson supplied.

Jim frowned. "In my last school we were making bloody flowers and dogs." He shook his head. "I honestly can't say which I prefer."

Anderson stopped mid-cut. The new kid had said 'bloody' like it had been nothing. He looked again at Jim, watching him cut the paper with great precision. "I wish we didn't have to cut things at all. I'm rubbish with scissors."

Instead of the expected encouraging compliment from Jim, the boy just shrugged. A minute passed before Anderson glanced to his side to see Jim looking at him. "Who is Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Sherlock, the kid the teacher said normally sit where you're sitting. He has such an odd name, don't you think?"

"He is kind of weird, too," Anderson said automatically, then pressed his mouth shut. Should he be saying that about his friend's new friend?

Jim cocked his head, forgetting about his half-finished Stonehenge. "How so?"

Anderson hesitated. He'd just met Jim...and he'd barely just started seeing Sherlock as another kid. Should he say? He shrugged. There was no harm in saying something everybody else knew. "Well he kinda talks like you, really sophisticated. And he's really quiet unless he's answering a question Mrs. Willow asks that nobody else can answer. And...he's taller than me," Anderson finished lamely.

"Hmm..." Jim said. "Do you think he would talk to me? From your description, it seems that he is the smartest kid in the class and it would be a lot less dreadfully boring if I had someone to talk to near my intellectual level."

Anderson was pretty sure Jim was calling him stupid, but he decided not to comment on that. Instead, he said, the hesitant feeling still present, "He just got a friend from another class named John Watson and he went over to John's house yesterday after school so he's okay I guess to talk to. And since he's John's friend, he's kinda my friend too so he's not that weird—at least not since lately."

"John Watson?"

"He's...really cool. Like he's kinda the friend that we're all friends with and we're also kinda friends with each other too."

Jim frowned. "I guess that makes some social sense."

"Five more minutes!" came Mrs. Willow's voice from the front of the classroom.

Both Jim and Anderson looked down at their half-finished Stonehenges. It was time to break out the safety scissors once more.

And as Jim sat there, rapidly cutting, he smiled to himself. He hadn't had anybody to talk to in his private schools—at least not anybody who wanted to talk to the quiet kid. They just sat there snobbily, chatting about their horses and their completed collections of action figures. Sure, Jim had the money for those things. He had a pet—a golden retriever—and action figures, too, but he didn't need to flaunt them.

But he was just so devastatingly lonely that he started doing anything to get attention. He'd shout answers over the other kids, cut into their snobby conversations with interjections about his family's maid. But when they pushed him out of their tight circles, Jim grew angry. 

Public school, Jim mused. After all of his failed enrollments at so many private schools, would it be a public school where he finally found his friend, his equal? Anderson definitely wasn't it, but he could prove useful...now just to speak to Sherlock tomorrow...

...and hope with all his heart that this John Watson wouldn't take Sherlock away from him.


	8. Chapter 8

Yesterday, Sherlock leaned all about aviation. Planes still weren't as cool as pirate ships—even though the ones he looked at could easily carry a sandwich without falling.—but they were still pretty cool. They had a model of the American Wright Flyer there and Sherlock imagined inventing something so cool they duplicated it across an ocean.

When he entered the classroom, everything was normal. He waved a shy hello to Anderson, who looked more worried than usual. Maybe his dad had forgotten his lunch again.

Sherlock sat down in his usual seat in the back table. He bent down to retrieve a pencil from his bag as Mrs. Willow started her good mornings and when he came up again, somebody walked into the room just as the bell rang to start the day.

Sherlock's eyes immediately went to the new boy. His hair was the same colour as Sherlock's except the dark strands on the stranger's head fell straight rather than in curls. His dark eyes were a contrast to Sherlock's light, and there was a strange emptiness in them to go with his slightly defensive posture.  
"Hello, Jim," said Mrs. Willow. "Nice to see we're on time today."

The boy—whose name was now obviously Jim—just nodded at the statement and made his way to the back of the room to sit in the empty seat to Sherlock's left. Sherlock regarded him curiously, noting the lack of backpack. He pulled a pencil out of a trouser pocket and stared back at Sherlock.

"It seems that I missed something rather important yesterday," Sherlock remarked quietly as Mrs. Willow started a lesson about basic maths.

"Indeed," said Jim, then looked away, up to Mrs. Willow for a few seconds, as if judging whether the teacher's lesson was worth his time. Evidently it wasn't because he was looking back at Sherlock before Sherlock had had a chance to look away from Jim. "Simple maths," Jim snorted.

Sherlock nodded, smiling slightly. Maybe he had somebody on his level...? "I was multiplying and dividing when I was three."

Jim returned the grin. "I was four—although the reason behind that was because I was too busy with Harry Potter and H.G. Wells."

"Brilliant, those two," said Sherlock. He tuned in to Mrs. Willow for a second, heard something about 'twelve times two' and returned his attention to Jim. This far, she hadn't noticed their whispering.

"I've been able to recite passages from War of the Worlds from memory for as long as I can remember."

"The Invisible Man's always been a favourite of mine, as well."

Jim's attention was suddenly fully devoted to Sherlock. "Don't you ever feel like Griffin?"

"Well, I'm neither albino, invisible, nor am I mad—but yeah." Sherlock looked away for a second to write down a simple equation.

Sherlock looked back up to Jim to see an expression of empathy.

***

Meanwhile, in the world of Mycroft Holmes, the teacher was explaining some new kind of division. "You see," said the teacher, whom Mycroft intensely disliked, "you've been dividing all wrong! The curriculum wants me to teach one way, but, should you care to take up the way I'm teaching it, you'll benefit greatly in your future."

"Not even division is safe," Mycroft moaned to his friend Greg Lestrade. 

Greg snorted. "Mr. Smith's mad—he's not messing with my division...now that I've finally got it down."

***

At lunch time, Sherlock and John were sitting next to one another, chatting about paper airplanes and pirate ships.

Jim was at their table, as Anderson was still under the instruction from Mrs. Willow to show him around. He looked across the table, saw Sherlock and John talking so excitedly about their antics, and some of the old anger simmered. Jim couldn't help but be jealous. The Sherlock who had spoken to him as an equal not too long earlier was now acting as though he didn't exist, so caught up was he with speaking in inane conversation to his friend.

Jim deserved more than this. He deserved more than to sit at a table across from the only person who had ever identified with him and be ignored.

Yet Jim did nothing.

He didn't want to ruin anything—not yet. Sherlock would be his friend. He would never ignore Jim again. Now Jim just had to plan how he would go about doing it—

"Jim!" At the sound of Sherlock's voice, Jim's gaze snapped up to his, eyes questioning. Would he have to do something like the things that had gotten him kicked out of various schools...?

Sherlock smiled across the table and Jim felt wanted. "John, this is my friend Jim. From what I've gathered he's new around here and besides me and Anderson he doesn't know too many people."

The boy introduced as John looked a Jim as though noticing him for the first time. A grin spread across his round face. "Hello, Jim! Welcome to the school—when'dya get here?"

John probably wasn't on his or Sherlock's level—he could tell by the open grin covering his innocent face. He wasn't the type to be bullied, he was the one everyone loved. "A week ago, though I only just started here yesterday."

"Where did you move from?"

For a fraction of a second, Jim studied his sandwich. "I haven't really moved...more like switched schools."

Jim fully expected John to ask why but the other boy just nodded. Maybe this was why he and Sherlock were such good friends. "You sound a lot like Sherlock—like the way you talk," John said after a bit.

"I read a lot," Jim said, but it was overlapped by some statement from Anderson that made John laugh.

For the rest of the lunch period, Jim finished his sandwich without further conversation.


	9. Chapter 9

The winter months passed fairly quickly in a whirlwind of snowball fights, igloo-building, and ice skating. It was the happiest time Sherlock had ever known—for his birthday, his parents even got him a first edition of From the Earth to the Moon by Jules Verne. Clearly, his parents wanted him to move on from Wells to Verne, but Sherlock didn't mind that too much, as the usually somewhat serious author was absolutely hilarious in this novel. Sherlock couldn't wait to read its sequel.

At his birthday, he had also invited John and Jim. He hadn't wanted too big of a party so he hadn't invited Anderson or any of the others, but as Mycroft had been allowed to bring his friend Greg to stave off boredom, Sherlock thought that he, as the one with the birthday, should be allowed to invite two.

His parents were absolutely in love with Jim. From his knowledge of history to his eloquence of speech, Sherlock thought they may try to adopt him before the night was over.

John on the other hand, his parents weren't very interested in. He was a bit more normal than Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock didn't mind that too much. While his parents were fawning over Jim and arguing with the hired kitchen staff, Sherlock and John had adventures around Sherlock's house.

"It's huge!" were John's first words as he'd entered the house. He still gaped at the scrollwork on the staircase's bannister and the high ceilings, but his amazement was toned down somewhat when he and Sherlock giggled over portraits of former Holmeses. 

"What even are that guy's cheekbones?"

Sherlock considered John's statement. "It seems to be a pretty prevalent trait in my ancestors."

"I could cut bread on those!"

At John's words, Sherlock's head whipped around and he grinned at his friend. "So if my cheekbones ever do that you'll keep me around to slice your sandwiches?"

John couldn't help but laugh and before they knew it, they were both on the floor, unable to contain themselves as Sherlock's painted predecessors stared down at them with their razor-sharp cheekbones.

 

***

A little while later, the cake was served and nobody but John and Sherlock understood why they laughed whenever a slice was cut.

Sherlock had opened his parents' presents earlier, but, after cake, it was now time to open everyone else's. They all gathered in the sitting room, a flames in the fire place flickering to keep out the winter chill.

Greg had given him a journal, its dark cover bordering in silver. Nice and practical, Sherlock decided. Jim gave him a book of puzzles, which lit Sherlock's face up like a lightbulb—oh, how he loved solving puzzles!

John shyly passed on a card. "I didn't really know what to buy, so I drew you something on the card. I'm sort of a rubbish artist, but..." He but his lip, trailing off.

It was a drawing of them as pirates on their very own pirate ship. Sherlock had a fancy pirate's hat and John had a peg leg—there was even a parrot! Sherlock hugged the card. "Thank you, John! It's brilliant!"

John smiled as Mycroft, sitting across from Sherlock, spoke up. "I hadn't really known what to get you, so when I approached Mum and Dad, they said that we could give you something from all of us." He had a sort of anxious grin on his face, but there was definitely an air of excitement about him.

This was new—his parents and Mycroft hadn't collaborated in giving him a gift since he was too small to remember properly. Sherlock bounced slightly in his plush chair as his dad—who had a grin of his own on his face—picked up something from behind his chair and carried it over to Sherlock. It was wrapped in pretty blue paper and tied with a sparkling ribbon. And it was huge!

The rectangular shape was placed on Sherlock's lap and the package extended about three feet in length. "Wow!"

"Open it, Sherly," he heard his Mum say as he studied the wrapping.

Sherlock didn't need a second order. As soon as she finished speaking, he slipped the ribbon off of the package—which was surprisingly light for its size—and set to work on the blue paper.

When all of the wrappings lay in a slightly crumpled heap at the base of his chair, Sherlock was left with a dark, rectangular case. Faced with the hinged side, he flipped it around, careful of what may be inside, and undid the two clasps he saw on the opposite side. He then unzipped the case.

Sherlock knew what was inside before he lifted the lid. He'd known what had been inside since the blue paper was off.

But, no matter how good Sherlock was at deduction, the sight of a violin—his violin laying in front of him in it's lightweight case made his jaw drop. He looked up at Mycroft, then at his parents, completely blown away. "You got me a violin?" Going to John's house, being absorbed in a good book, and laughing on the floor with John all rolled up into one huge, wonderful feeling as Sherlock took the instrument out of its case for the first time.

He wrapped one hand partially around the violin's neck, the other caressing the base to the right of the chin rest. "It should be in tune if you'd like to try it," his father said.

"Go on, try it Sherlock!" John cheered and Jim added his encouragement.

Sherlock took out the bow and, according to his Mum's careful instructions, tightened the pale horse hair and ran amber-coloured rosin across it. "Put your fingers on it like this," she demonstrated and handed it back to him. Sherlock fit his fingers the way his mother had shown him. It felt really awkward right now, but Sherlock was determined to get used to it.

His mother also showed him how to hold the violin. He picked attached a shoulder rest and put it on his shoulder, sandwiching the base of the instrument between his collar bone and chin. Gingerly, he placed the frog of the bow on one of the middle strings and drew it across.

The sound Sherlock produced opened mouths, had fingers clenching the arms of chairs.

The shriek Sherlock's violin produced as the bow slipped in its kind of diagonal path across the strings made the room simultaneously grimace. He took it off his shoulder and the shoulder rest fell off.

Looking sort of awkwardly out at the rest of the room, Sherlock gave a nervous laugh. "It appears I've got a way to go."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock tried the simple piece again, annoyed that he just couldn't seem to get it right. The bow, although not as unwieldy as it had been a month ago, was still prone to producing a sound that would make anyone within earshot cringe.

The fingers of his left hand stung just the slightest from all of the practicing he'd been doing. He had been kind of able to remember first position and his intonation wasn't bad—he had the right kind of ear for a violinist—but the bow! It didn't seem to want to work but Sherlock was determined he'd get it eventually.

***

Since Sherlock got a violin, Jim had been dropping hints to his parents to give him a musical instrument, but thus far he hadn't reached any success. At lunch he was voicing his annoyance about it to Sherlock when the bell for recess rang.

That magical bell...every day, whatever conversation Jim may have been involved in, whatever companionship he may have felt with the people at the table he called his friends was dimmed or erased. It wasn't as simple as them just leaving him behind. No, they tolerated and even encouraged his presence, but even at this new school with the person he had finally been able to talk to, he still felt distant from everybody else.

Whatever frequency that their brains seemed to operate at that they were able to communicate so easily with one another was a frequency Jim's brain didn't receive. He noticed Sherlock hanging back sometimes the way Jim did, but Jim didn't have anybody like John to pull him back into the group.

Maybe if John hadn't been there, he and Sherlock could have gone off somewhere and spoken. Maybe it would have helped a little bit to ease whatever anger Jim felt at the world. But John was there, was always there, and Jim never got to see what that felt like.

So occasionally he'd wander off to the swing set. There always seemed to be a couple of them open. He was fine sometimes with just closing his eyes and sailing up up up, only to be carried back down to earth by gravity. And then the swing would take him up again and Jim wished more than anything that he could take off and fly away, high up above the playground with birds and clouds as his only peers. He had an odd little fantasy of having tea on a cloud.

But that would always end when Sherlock, trailing John, would arrive at the swing set. Sherlock would say his name and Jim would open his eyes, dragging his feet on the wood chips to slow his swing. As always, Sherlock would look, concerned, at the lonely Jim and ask him why he'd wandered off. And as always, Jim would obediently get off the swing, trailing John who trailed Sherlock, and once more hover at the edge of the group while Sherlock's conscious was eased. 

Jim remembered getting angry. He could feel the sullen air which hovered around his downcast gaze, could feel his hands curl into fists as he stared at the circle he would never fit into, and he wondered why. Why did he have to be this way? Why hadn't he, having grown up around them, become one of those vapid children who always seemed to find companionship in their multitude of equals? And why, having finally found his equal, did Jim always feel so far away?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down!

"I'm getting better at the violin!" Sherlock said cheerily to Jim one morning.

Jim smiled back, wishing for an instrument even more. Tonight he would redouble his efforts to plead with his parents.

Sherlock settled into his seat next to Jim and got out his pencil as he noticed the teacher looking expectantly at the clock. It was just a normal day.

***

At lunchtime, Sherlock and Jim traveled down to the lunch room in a line with the rest of the class. Sherlock could see Anderson further up the line, walking as though nobody else existed.

They made their way to the lunch room, sat down in their usual seats. Sherlock noticed the seat beside him was empty. He looked around, saw John's class filing in a minute late. Sherlock searched the line for his best friend, but he couldn't find him. A spark of panic made his scanning frantic, but he was unable to locate John anywhere on that line.

He could just be buying lunch—but John never bought lunch. His mother always made him those really nice jam sandwiches that they had tried to launch on paper aeroplanes. Sherlock's eyes darted everywhere, taking everyone in, attempting to somehow find John, but he had already deduced the answer.

John was out sick.

The thought hit him with an almost physical weight. After months of John's constant presence at lunch and recess, Sherlock almost didn't know how to function without him. He studied his food for a second, trying to remember himself. It was as though there was a part of him missing. How had he functioned alone for so long?

Finally, he looked across the table at Jim, and tried to smile. John wasn't his only friend. Jim, he could always talk to—if he got really desperate, he could even try Anderson even though Anderson annoyed him.

He glanced down at Jim's lunch. "How's your sandwich, Jim?"

"Good...and your pasta salad?" He had looked surprised when Sherlock spoke.

Sherlock decided to pretend that nothing was unusual. "Good." He nodded. Now what to say? "What do you want to play today at recess?"

Jim shrugged. "Swings?"

"Brilliant! We could close our eyes and pretend we're flying!" Sherlock took an enthusiastic bite of his pasta salad.

Sensing the conversation was paused, Jim went back to his sandwich. Swings! He and Sherlock would finally have the chance to spend the time together he so wished for. What would it be like to have a friend whose entire attention was focused solely on you? There had always been John around—but today he was out of the picture. Oh, did Jim wish that could last.

Soon, the bell ending lunch rang and the kids filed compliantly outside for recess, only to take off sprinting down the blacktop to the play sets. Anderson and the rest of the group peeled away from Sherlock and Jim but Sherlock didn't mind. He had never really made close friends with Anderson and he felt sort of bad how Jim was always lonely.

Sherlock always noticed Jim hanging back. He wished he could do something, but he was just barely getting out of the same position. He felt bad that Jim didn't have anyone like John to force him out of his shell. 

So now, as they dashed down the blacktop track towards the playground, Sherlock laughed aloud. "You're not a bad runner, Jim!"

Sherlock saw the grin that spread across Jim's face and wondered when the last time was that somebody had given him a compliment. "You're rather good, yourself!"

They made it to the swings and plopped down on two of the plastic black strips next to one another. "How high can you go?" Sherlock cried, walking backwards on the swing. He lifted his legs and flew forwards, only to be carried back again.

"Higher than you, I'll bet!"

"Would you like to have a small competition? I must warn you, I've had a lot of practice on these swings!"

"As have I—though I must say, you're out of practice!" Jim had about half a foot on Sherlock at the moment.

Unwilling to be beaten, Sherlock kicked out his legs with more force, and he quickly made up the height. "Oh, now! Maybe I just have an innate ability to out-swing any challengers."

Jim shook his head, giggling as the joke appeared in his mind. "I'd beg to differ! I'm the self-proclaimed King of Swings!"

"Then—Your Majesty—I must ask: Where is your crown?"

Jim tucked in his legs, and he and Sherlock were carried backwards in tandem. "It's out being polished—though I assure you, I look exquisite in it!"

They laughed and were carried forwards once more. They reached the same height before backward motion began. "I do believe we're about even!" Sherlock marvelled. He wasn't used to having equals in non-sporting activities.

"Ah! So we are!"

"Now let's close our eyes and pretend we're flying!"

Jim closed his eyes, felt the sunlight as a warm presence against his eyelids. He kept swinging, smiling. He knew that if he opened his eyes, Sherlock would be there, right next to him. A friend! John wasn't there to get between them, to divert Sherlock's attention to his plain, common ways. Without John, he and Sherlock could be happy. They could be best friends forever and ever!

Because as much as he was beyond all of these people, as much as Jim's intellect could run circles around most of them, all he wanted was to see what it was like to be one of them. He played at being aloof sometimes, he tried being tough or callous, but it wasn't enough. He was one person in a world of many, and these many were happy being inferior! It had taken Jim so long to puzzle out why.

What was the point of being at the pinnacle of intelligence when there was nobody to share it with? Nobody to challenge you, a rival. Nobody to make you laugh, make you feel like you belong and that you're not just an island with a brain...a friend?

And now that Sherlock cared, that John wasn't here and they could be alone together, Jim didn't want it to go back to the way it was. 

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes. "Jim?"

Jim looked over at his friend. "Yeah?"

"Want to try something fun?"

He grinned. "Sure!"

"So when John first came over to me, he found me on the swings. And swings are good fun—we're playing on them now. But John took me over to the slide and we jumped off the side of it together. It was brilliant! So long as the adults don't see us, of course!"

"Is it like flying? More so than swings?"

"For a second! There's nothing to sit on, just you in the open air!"

Jim imagined it and liked how the imagining felt. "Let's do it!"

***

John blinked away sleepiness. "Mum, I'm sure I'll be okay." They stood in the office, checking John into school late.

"I'm just worried about you—if you feel the headache returning, tell someone and I'll be up in two seconds. Okay?"

He nodded. "I'll be fine. It's only half a day and I don't want to miss too much school!"

"Well, I guess that will be a good philosophy in the future...I'll see you later, Little Hedgehog."

"MUM!" A slight red rose in John's cheeks. 

She laughed. "Sorry, John," she said as she walked out of the office.

The lady in the office watched the exchange with a slight smile before the little boy returned his attention to her. She checked the time. "Everybody's at recess right now—do you feel up to joining them?"

Sherlock, thought John. He nodded, the edge of grogginess still clinging as he had woken up only half an hour ago.

"All right. I'll have somebody escort you to the door."

John walked along the hallway, wondering what he had missed. It wasn't often that he was out and he wondered how his newest friend was faring without him.

***

Sherlock and Jim stood atop the slide, looking out over the blacktop portion of the playground. They saw everybody playing, somewhat smaller with the distance, although they weren't up terribly high. 

"So how does this work?" Jim asked. 

Sherlock inched closer to the edge. "It's not horribly difficult. When you're falling, just—"

Jim tuned Sherlock out for a fraction of a second. He saw, coming onto the blacktop, John. Immediately, anger boiled over. His vision focused onto John. He saw the adult next to John leave, saw John look over towards the swings. John's head turned as his eyes swept over the playground.

Jim silently fumed. What right did John have to come into this, when he and Sherlock were finally spending time together?! When—finally—Jim had a friend? But he knew, deep inside, that John would always be there to keep Jim from Sherlock, to keep Jim from having a friend, being happy?

Well!—Well if Jim couldn't have someone like Sherlock, then John definitely didn't deserve him. John would never have a chance to steal a friend away from him again. 

The anger was there, the anger that had gotten him expelled from every school he'd ever attended, the anger that arose from the injustice that was the world, the bloody world that he would never really be a part of. Well, he didn't need that world to accept him.

All of this ran through his head in a fraction of a second, and Jim's vision cleared. He saw Sherlock in front of him, saw Sherlock's turn the slightest bit, a grin on his face. He hadn't yet noticed John's arrival. "So, are you ready?"

But Jim had noticed John's arrival, and the anger boiled over. Jim smirked. "I'm ready," he said, and easily pushed the unassuming Sherlock off of the slide.

***

John's eyes swept from the curiously-empty swings, across the playground. Huh. There were two figures on the sli—one was falling!

And John was running towards that familiar figure with curly black hair, illness forgotten entirely. "SHERLOCK!" he cried, the two syllables burning their way up his throat.

The playground immediately fell silent, but John didn't notice. It took him forever—too long—to reach the patch of ground below the slide. He fell into a crouch beside his friend—his best friend.

Sherlock had wood chips in his hair and scratches on his face from where they had scraped him. His coat covered him like a blanket. And. And. John gulped.

Sherlock wasn't moving.

Sherlock. Wasn't moving.

Something made John tear his eyes away from his friend and he looked up, up at the top of the slide were somebody was crouched, emotionless blue eyes staring back down at him. "You," John snarled, suddenly madder than he had ever been in his eight years of life.

Jim smirked. He smirked. "A bit more direct than I'm used to, but I seem to have made a statement."

Behind John, a crowd was gathering. It was only a matter of time before an adult arrived.

"STATEMENT? WHAT STATEMENT WERE YOU TRYING TO MAKE?" John screamed, tears rolling down his face. "You hurt my friend!" He attempted to gather himself. It was so hard. So hard. But John concentrated his voice into a measured growl. "If I ever, ever see you again, Jim Moriarty—"

The smirk deepened. "You'll kill me?" He finished. How could his voice be so taunting, so uncaring as he spoke?

John shot to his feet as one of the lunch monitors pushed finally pushed her way through the crowd of kids. "GO TO HELL!" he shrieked as the monitor pulled him away from Sherlock. It was the first time John had ever cursed.

"I'll see you there," he said, still grinning.

***

They took John to the guidance office. He sat, feeling smaller than small, in a chair while a concerned-looking councillor regarded him from across a desk.

John sniffled. "My best friend, Sherlock Holmes..."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finale

John sniffled. "My best friend, Sherlock Holmes..."

"Yes?" the guidance counsellor prompted.

He closed his eyes, surprised at his sudden anger. "...was pushed off of the big slide in the playground by Jim Moriarty. On impact, he fractured one of the bones in his forearm and passed out from the pain. He was kept overnight in the hospital after he woke up so that they could monitor him and make sure nothing else was wrong."

The councillor regarded him, her brow furrowed. "Does talking about it make it feel any better?" 

John shook his head. "No, it doesn't! Moriarty pushed my friend off of a slide and I couldn't do anything about it! Now I haven't seen Sherlock in days and Jim was only expelled!...I won't be better for a while."

That councillor's concerned look was getting on John's nerves. She sighed, said, "We'll talk again tomorrow?"

John nodded and walked out of the office.

***

Sherlock was fuming. They expected him to sit still! His parents had kept him out of school three days after they released him from the hospital. He was fine. He was absolutely fine! He just had a wrapping around his right arm—that was all! 

They wouldn't even let him play his violin! It wasn't as though he could practice in secret either, as violins weren't exactly the most subtle of instruments.

All he could do was read the sequel to From the Earth to the Moon, and laugh weakly at the antics of the Gun Club, selected members of which were currently trapped in orbit around the Moon. But Sherlock's heart wasn't into the book. It was an amazing thought in its oddity, but he really wanted to be back at school. That wasn't really a thought that crossed the minds of many eight-year-olds, but Sherlock was getting lonely.

It was so empty on this huge house without Mycroft and his parents around. Sure, the maid was around, and theoretically he could play a few notes on his violin, but he knew that she'd tell on him.

So he read his book alone and wished it was he and John in the giant cannonball, orbiting the dark side of the Moon. They'd have tons of fun in the Moon's orbit, taking pictures of the Moon's pockmarked surface and showing them off to Anderson and the rest of John's friends once they returned to Earth. Of course, he wasn't sure yet exactly how the characters in the book returned home, but he was sure they'd make their way back to Earth somehow. 

***

Jim gulped. It had been a week since he had been expelled and his parents had been quick about enrolling him in another school. They'd threatened him with this school before he tried public school. They'd told him that if he had another problem like last time then he would be sent away, but he hadn't thought. No, that's untrue. He had thought and he had felt and because of it, the only person he had ever been able to call his friend was pushed off of a slide. By his own hand.

Jim looked around at his new school, the words of the adult at the main office who was explaining the usual things to him just washing over him, never reaching his ears. He knew it was going to be stricter here. It was a school for people like him, kids who had angered their parents by being expelled one too many times.

He supposed he may be able to find a friend here. As the adult led him to his first class, leaving him at the door with a barely-veiled threat of what would happen, should he misbehave, Jim stared at the open doorway. He took in the teacher, regarding him as he took his first steps into the classroom. He listened to the teacher recite his name, heard himself correct her when she said "James" instead of "Jim". But his heart wasn't in it.

Eventually, he sat down in the back of the classroom in an empty seat at an almost-full grouping of desks. He was prepared to look down at the scarred surface of the desk as the teacher resumed her day's lecture. He didn't even remember her name, something which shocked him when he thought about it. Jim always noticed every detail. He was in a fog and he couldn't see a way out of it. He was trapped, he was—

"Hello?" Came the voice of the kid seated next to him. He looked tough. As tough as an eight-year-old could be, Jim supposed.

"What is it?" Jim whispered back, hoping to avoid detection by the teacher.

"You're the new kid," he said.

Jim frowned. "Yes, thank you ever so much for stating the obvious. What of it?"

A small crease appeared between the boy's eyebrows as they drew together. "Well, I just wanted to introduce myself. You look as though you could use someone to sit with at lunch."

Hopeful, a smile threatened to tug at the side of Jim's mouth, which, should it win out, it would bring an expression to Jim's face that hadn't appeared for seven days.

"My name's Sebastian Moran."

And just like that, the fog was lifted.

***

It was a week before Sherlock's parents allowed him to return to school. He thought he would go mad from boredom. Not only had he finished every book on his reading list, he also managed to reread all of his favourites before his parents finally allowed him to touch his violin, two days before he was allowed to return to school.

Each day after Sherlock got home from the hospital, he called John as soon as he returned home from the bus (He had calculated the time of the bus ride, added that to the walk from the bus stop to John's house, and allowed for traffic and other various delays.). John's parents must have hated what he contributed to their monthly phone bill, but it was nice just have another human to talk to, as Sherlock lived in such a work-oriented family.

But when Sherlock was dropped off at school on the seventh morning after the incident, he nearly dashed through the hallways to find John's classroom.

Sure enough, all of the students were there, waiting outside the room, lining the hallway on either side in preparation for the first bell to ring. He didn't care about all of the looks he received—Sherlock, essentially back from the dead because he had been gone for so long, rushing down the hallway with his coat billowing out behind him, unkempt curly hair bouncing.

Finally, he set eyes on John. As he reached his best friend, he heard a relieved cry of "Sherlock!"

John stood up and Sherlock skidded to a stop in front of him. So relieved to see one another after so much had happened, John gave Sherlock a hug.

"You're back! You're back you're back you're back!" John cheered.

"Of course," said Sherlock. "You're my friend. I'll always come back for you."


End file.
